Lady in Green
by EE's Skysong
Summary: No powers AU. Remy is a songwriter for a band. He has writer's block. Then he meets a girl in a green dress who refuses to give him her name... Oneshot, rated for language, R&R.


Disclaimer: "Don't get me angry. I'm running out of places to hide the bodies."

(AN: This was inspired by a song I heard on the radio (I'd tell you what it was but I don't know... which makes me sad) and originally I was just gonna ignore it, and then I opened a new package of cards and it just kind of spawned... so yeah. In case you're very unobservant, there are no powers in this 'un. It's set five years after Evo ends, so John and Kitty are 22, Rogue and Piotr are 23, and Remy's 24... according to me, at least.)

There was nothing better than opening a new pack of cards, according to Remy LeBeau. Except for maybe opening a new package of cigarettes... 

Remy groaned and leaned his head against the wall of the bus. He did **not** smoke. He hadn't had a cigarette in over six months. The sudden craving for a nicotene fix had an easy explanation, though: he had writer's block. Cigarettes made it incredibly easy to think... they also made it incredibly easy to die, though.

He didn't write books, though, nope, that was John's job. He wrote songs, and usually he was pretty good at it, too. But lately he'd been having problems. The tunes wrote themselves, as usual. The beats came out of nowhere. But the lyrics refused point-blank to come out of wherever they hid in his head. And **damn** was it frustrating.

John found him there a half-hour later, steadily beating his head against the wall. "Remy? Mate? You ok?"

No answer.

"Seriously, that can't be good for you. You don't have any brain cells to spare."

No answer.

"Hellooo, earth to swamp rat..."

Remy turned his head, one eye twitching slightly. "Wait, wait, I think I got something-" He held up a finger. A second later, the finger went down. "Nope, never mind, it's gone." He went back to banging.

"Still blocked, then?"

"There is no need- none!- for you to come in here and gloat about how you've never been more inspired."

"Wasn't gonna, mate, Piotr heard the banging and told me to check on you. Didn't want our guitarist/songwriter committing suicide."

"Suicide would be too kind," Remy muttered. "I just need something to inspire me, is all. Now get out of here before I'm forced to kill **you**."

"Fine, fine," said John, holding up his hands and backing out of Remy's room.

Their band was fairly popular; they had a faithful fanbase and one CD out. Remy was supposed to be working on the next. John and Piotr usually messed with his music but on lyrics they left him alone. Well... not lately. Lately they had been bugging the crap out of him. For "they", read John. Piotr was quiet. Which was nice.

Remy sighed again and went to tune his guitar. They had a show in less than an hour and sitting here and being annoyed wasn't going to get him ready.

A FEW HOURS LATER...

He met the woman at the bar after their set.

The club was a chic little deal; set in one of the smallest towns in New York, Bayville, but still pretty popular. Remy couldn't remember why they'd been asked to play there. He hadn't been paying attention at all when their manager had explained it to them. Remy had been lost in his own world a lot lately, constantly trying to think of a new song.

But, like he'd told John, he needed new inspiration.

The _femme_ at the bar was quite possibly the most beautiful woman Remy'd ever seen, and that was saying something. She was a little younger than him, about Piotr's age, probably, staring off into space and smiling slightly. The smile disappeared as soon as he sat down next to her. It was replaced with the kind of man-hating scowl Remy loved to wipe off the faces of women.

"Hi," said Remy, calmly enough.

"Goodbye," she responded, turning her back.

"Well that's not very nice," Remy said, shaking his head. "I din't do anything to you, _chere_. Is sayin' hello a crime in this state?"

"I don't talk to chauvinist swamp rats," she responded, trying to concentrate on her drink now.

"But all I want to do is strike up a conversation with the most _belle_ river rat I've seen," said Remy.

"And all **I** want is for you to go away."

"_Porquoi_?"

"Because I don't like you."

"We just met, _chere_."

"I saw enough of you up onstage to last a lifetime, bayou boy."

"Most _femmes_ don't think it's **nearly** enough, _chere_."

"Yeah, well, I'm not 'most _femmes_," she replied, mocking his accent.

"You can't do Louisiana, _ma chere_; best stick with what God gave you."

And **damn** had God given her a lot. She wore a tight green dress- almost black, in fact- with green eyes as well and odd white stripes in her hair.

She kept her head turned but one corner of her mouth went up at that. She forced it down.

"Can I at least have your name?"

"Why? I already know yours, **Remy**."

"Well, that's a start, anyway."

"Start of what?"

"Whatever you want, _chere_."

She turned to face him now, glaring. Remy just stared back, smirking. "Look, you, the only reason I'm sticking around is because the friend I came here with- the friend with the car keys- has abducted your keyboardist. Otherwise I'd have left as soon as you sat down. But she's so drunk she may just have trouble finding me if I move, got it? So why don't you fuck off and leave me alone?"

Remy ignored her last statement, shaking his head again. "Poor Pete. He don't like girls."

"What, he's gay?"

"No, he's shy. To the point of paralyization."

She winced. "The guy's gonna be in a coma by the time Kitty's done with him, then." Then she shook herself, seeming to realize she was carrying on a decent conversation with him. "My statement stands. Leave me alone."

"Aw, but _chere_, I'm only gonna be in this town one night..."

"Good. I'll have a party when you leave." She turned her back again, watching the new act onstage.

"Now that just ain't nice."

"What were you expecting?"

"Your name?"

"Uh, no. Knowing yours is a torment that will keep me up at night."

"Oh, come on, _chere_, I ain't that bad, am I?"

"Bad guitarist, no. Bad singer, no. Bad songwriter, no." (Remy flinched a little at that.) "Annoying, yes. Persistent, unfortunately. Bad in general, definitely."

"That's something, anyway."

Rogue groaned. "Why can't you just go away?"

"Because my drummer and my keyboardist are going to have fond memories of their flings," he paused and pointed over at John, who was heavily making out with some girl in red, "and me, I'm not even gonna have _ma chere's nomme_."

"All the better, then."

A girl in pink with mussed brown hair, a giant smirk, and a slight sway to her walk came over.

"Come on, Kit, let's go," said the woman in green.

"Aw, but you haven't got to have any fun yet."

"I've had plenty." She glanced at Remy dryly. "Buh-bye now." She grabbed the pink girl's hand and walked off.

Remy sighed, turning back to the counter. He happened to notice that there was writing on her napkin. He picked it up, seeing the name "Marie" and a phone number.

Remy grinned, and then took out his pen and started scribbling on the paper. He'd found his inspiration, and she wore a green dress.

(That's that. This is one of the few oneshots that I actually am satisfied with. Review!)


End file.
